


Woman, Angel, Princess, Beautiful - The Rebound

by LylaUnicorn



Series: Woman, Angel, Princess, Beautiful [2]
Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Blackmail, Break Up, Car Accidents, Cheating, Coming of Age, Dark Comedy, Discipline, Domestic, Domestic Violence, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Explicit Language, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Intimidation, Loss of Virginity, Murder, Nudity, Oral Sex, Post-Break Up, Serious Injuries, Sex, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:09:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29052672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LylaUnicorn/pseuds/LylaUnicorn
Summary: Vegeta is left to watch over Trunks and Capsule Corp.  Lone parenting turns out to be quite a challenge and the saiyan prince finds himself turning to Videl Satan for assistance.
Relationships: Bulma Briefs/Vegeta, Videl Satan/Son Gohan, Videl Satan/Vegeta
Series: Woman, Angel, Princess, Beautiful [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1687156
Comments: 12
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Dragon Ball Z is the creation of Akira Toriyama, © Toei Animation and Funimation
> 
> Hello and welcome to 'The Rebound'. This fic is a direct sequel to 'The Surveillant' and will contain just as much drama and controversy, maybe even a little more 🤔 Anyway, a special thank you to all readers that leave kind comments and constructive criticism. 
> 
> Sorry for the minor spoiler but fair warning is necessary: There are graphic sex scenes throughout, some involving a seventeen year old anime character.
> 
> Wishing everyone safe and happy reading always xXx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fire burns at Capsule Corp. Vegeta watches on.

Flames danced. 

Crackling like crushed bubble-wrap, the fire grew as big as a house. Orange sparks darted over Capsule Corp. Higher still, smoke melted into the night sky and erased the stars.

There would be questions to answer in the morning. Until then, I let myself slip into a reflective trance.

Two weeks had passed since seeing off the Sons, and up until the last forty-eight hours Bulma and I spent the whole time rediscovering the joys of marriage. 

After our passionate reconciliation behind the sofa, we drifted into a kind of honeymoon daze. Strolling through the park, we held hands like kindergarteners on a field trip. We went out for dinner and split dessert, spoons clashing playfully as we fought over the last bite. (For the record, I let her have it.) During movie night, we cozied up on the sofa – my arm draped around her, her pretty head resting on my shoulder. 

With our newfangled _liberal_ take on romance in full swing, the woman and I were sometimes caught in the act of expressing affection. Every little hug and kiss drew twinkly-eyed glances and irrepressible giggles from Trunks and his grandparents. And though they were all for our happiness, if I’d had to endure their unwanted attention for much longer, I’d have ~~demanded they shut the fuck up and quit gawking~~ asked them to kindly direct their prying eyes elsewhere. 

No matter. The harmony between Bulma and I didn’t last long enough for our family’s onlooking to become an issue. 

For despite our attempt at a fresh start, we hit a few _stumbling blocks_. 

Bit by bit, the heart of the fire - a black pyramid of fixtures and fittings - began to collapse. Tumbling down its jagged sides, wooden furniture frames snapped and crunched. Scraps of upholstery flailed like crippled bat wings. 

Even by my hard-nosed standards, it was a devastating sight to behold. One made all the worse when I cast my memory back and contrasted the smouldering destruction with mine and Bulma’s delightfully tactile start to the day before yesterday. 

There we were, in the kitchen. A picture of domestic bliss. And while she filled a cereal bowl on the countertop, I stood behind, going at her shoulder with something crossed between a kiss and a bite. 

“Ooh, Vegeta.” The woman giggled like a ticklish child. “You sure know how to distract a girl.”

I hasten to add, the _breakfast_ being prepared was not for either of us. Sugar frosted cornflakes went in first, followed by some other tooth-rotting rice krispie shit laced with marshmallow shapes. Finally, everything was topped off with milk and a generous squeeze of chocolate sauce.

Suppressing my urge to criticise the dire lack of nutrition in Trunks’ first meal of the day, I swept Bulma’s hair aside and spoke softly behind her ear. “The kid’s running late.” I followed up with a tender kiss to reassure her that it was a concern and not a criticism. “Don’t worry about driving him to school. I’ll fly with him.”

She tensed.

“…He isn’t going.”

I paused, then took a deep, temper-controlling breath. “…We agreed he would return today.” 

Slowly, she exhaled. “…He’s not ready.”

I stepped back and crossed my arms. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

The woman placed a spoon into the cereal bowl, stirring and folding until a lumpy, cocoa marbled slop formed. Then, just as I started to think that I was being ignored, she calmly plead her case. “He’s in first grade. All he does is colour pictures of kitties and read fairy tales. It’s not like one more day at home is gonna hurt his college prospects.”

A disc of stress suddenly formed behind my brow bones. “That’s not the point,” I said, rubbing my forehead. “He needs to get back into a normal routine.” 

“He will,” she said with dubious sincerity. “…In his own time.”

A month had passed since Bulma cut dead her extramarital affair. Yet there seemed no end in sight to the accompanying guilt trip. Consequently, she continued to spoil Trunks rotten. And his absence from school went on all through December. 

Like most educational institutions, West City Elementary closed for the winter holidays. And it was during that time I convinced Bulma that the new trimester would be the ideal time for our son to start back. 

We floated the idea to him and, much to our delight, he fizzed with excitement. 

_“I can’t wait to see all my friends! Can I take my new action figures to show ‘em?”_

However, when that ill-fated January morning came around, he griped about everything from having to wake up early to feeling sick with anxiety.

Bulma folded instantly and without question. “Honestly, Trunks looked like he was about to have a panic attack. So, I told him to take a duvet day.”

I, on the other hand, was all set to wrench the malingering little bastard out of bed so hard, I didn’t care if his arm dislocated from its socket. 

Bulma blocked my exit from the kitchen. “Please, Honey,” she whined. “Don’t get mad.”

She closed in. “Trunks’ll fall back to sleep right after breakfast.” A mischievous glint beset her sapphire eyes and she stroked the underside of my chin like a pet. “Once my parents set off for the plant nursery, you and I will have the rest of the morning to ourselves…” She held up the chocolate sauce bottle, allowing it to dangle between her index finger and thumb. “Just think of all the _fun_ we could have.”

That clinched it.

Trunks would nap half the day away, and I’d end up spending an inordinate amount of time in the shower, rinsing away any sweet, sticky goo that his mother didn't lick off my junk. Damnit, that’s what I got for letting my dick have a say in deciding whether to listen to the woman. 

Although, by that point, sex had become our answer to everything. 

What with the boy and his grandparents, my training schedule, Bulma’s shopping trips and beauty salon appointments, time together at home was rare. And so, whenever she and I found ourselves alone, we went nuts.

Quickies happened at a second’s notice. We tore each other’s clothes off, reducing them to rags in the process. Any and all waist-high furniture became liable to get fucked on. 

The antique console table in the hallway was three centuries old. It had survived wars and journeyed across oceans and continents. It had been bought and sold countless times, spent decades in storage and had been painstakingly restored to its original glory only to buckle beneath our frenzied copulation.

And just as our furnishings suffered the consequences of our intense and spontaneous lovemaking, so too, our bodies bore all the hallmarks.

Bulma ended up with carpet burns on her knees after I fucked her from behind, rough and fast, on the rug in the sun room. 

When I ravished her on the dining room table, capillaries broke around her throat and blossomed into a necklace of love bites,

Bruises, like tattoos of storm clouds, appeared on her rib cage not long after I bent her over the balcony and rammed home until her pussy overflowed with cum.

And thanks to her fake nails, I sported scratches down my back and ten red half-moons on my shoulder blades.

The special high we got from make-up sex was worth every shot of pain and drop of blood. With each orgasm, we felt like champions stepping out of the ring, convinced that our relationship was uniquely indestructible. 

What’s more, the sexual overcompensation didn’t stop at _conventional_ intercourse.

_“…Ooooh!…Ow…Ow…Ow…Honey!…Agh!…Real slow, ok?”_

Anal was overrated. I could’ve lived without it. But I wanted the one part of Bulma that no one else ever had. And I suppose I thought that shoving my dick in her ass was preferable to inflicting the crisp, burning slap across the face which, in my darker moments, I felt she deserved as payback for cheating.

_“…Baby!?…Ooh!...I could take you in my pussy all day long but…agh!…this tooshie-loving is a challenge and a half.”_

Staring into the inferno, its fierce heat caressing my eyes, I cursed myself and the woman for squandering every moment of solitude. If only we had kept our hedonistic ways in check, just enough to get a grip on our son’s.

Trunks was constantly in the way. In front of him, Bulma and I were not free to talk as we pleased. All those sensitive little conversations we needed to have about his education and decline into a spoiled brat, were put on the back burner. And with no real parenting going on, he carried on thinking that it was acceptable to slob out on the sofa, yelling food and drink orders without so much as a ‘please’ or ‘thank you’.

To make matters worse, the woman routinely undermined me. For instance, Trunks would make some unreasonable, ill-mannered demand – say, an energy drink and cotton candy milkshake. I’d tell him ‘no Goddamn way’, then, when Bulma thought I wasn’t listening, she’d whisper something along the lines of _“wait until Daddy’s training, then I’ll make anything you want.”_

Her flagrant disregard for my authority made my piss boil. But challenging her on the matter only led to more strife _._

_“DAMNIT, VEGETA! Quit being such a control freak!”_

_“Woman, if you want to drag up an obnoxious, sugar addled brat who refuses to sleep in his own bed, then you’re even more of a flake than I thought.”_

_“MOMMY! DADDY! STOP FIGHTING!!! I HATE WHEN YOU FIGHT! WAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!”_

Interestingly enough, falling out didn’t stop us getting intimate. 

Night after night, once Trunks was fast asleep, Bulma joined me in the guestroom; the one allocated to me back when I first moved in. 

_“Honey? You awake?”_

We fucked until the early hours. Then, once I’d emptied my balls, she returned to the boy.

After our final and most intense session – a contortive screw that started with a 69 and ended with me on top, pinning her ankles back by her ears - I insisted that we reclaim our bedroom and make Trunks return to his.

Bulma blew out a lungful of smoke and extinguished her cigarette in the cap of my half-finished sport drink. “Give me a little time to work on him,” she sighed. Then, after settling back down next to me, she laid her head on my chest. “One more night. Two, at most.”

Yet, five days on, there we were preparing to feed our son, what was little more than, a bowl of sugar for breakfast and treating ‘school’ like a dirty word. 

In trying to restore normality to our family, the days leading up to my impromptu bonfire had seen me fight a valiant battle. 

_“The boy should only get ice cream if he eats his broccoli.”_

_“He doesn’t need chocolate AND cake! Make him choose one or the other.”_

But as much as I tried to compromise, Bulma overruled me. And I knew if I pressed on, she would snap. And then I would snap back.

I couldn’t risk undoing all the progress I’d made on the relationship front, so, time and time again, I ~~backed down~~ held my tongue. 

That included, what was to become, our last morning together.

I guided the woman’s hand aside (and with it, the chocolate sauce bottle) and slid my arms around her waist. “One. More. Day.”

She smiled. “Thanks, Honey. I knew you’d understand.” And with that, she turned to put the finishing touches on Trunks’ breakfast - a liberal scattering of rainbow sprinkles and maraschino cherries.

Relieved that harmony had been restored, and thrilled that wicked, sticky antics were on the cards, I allowed myself to relax and appreciate the beauty before me. The way her turquoise hair sat in big bouncy ringlets between her shoulder blades, the way her body narrowed at the waist and flared at the hip, the way her short, red dress ~~(the one she wore when she first fucked Gohan)~~ skimmed over every curve and clung to her thighs.

Through the layers of our clothes, my hard-on crushed against her ass, the tip pressing the base of her spine. As she leaned back, I ran my hands up her body. Tits filled my palms. Each thumb rubbed over a stiff nipple. I squeezed.

She tipped her head back against my shoulder “…Mmh…”

I went at her throat with an onslaught of slow kisses until she twirled around and caught my mouth in a passion-roughened kiss. Her hands clasped around the back of my neck and, while feeding on her tongue’s sweet flavour - marshmallows plucked from Trunks’ cereal - I pulled her thigh up against my waist. Relishing every inch of creamy skin, I felt my way up to her hip. My hand slid under the side of her underwear, ready to tear them off when…

“MOMMY!!!!”

Trunks’ shrill, demanding voice travelled downstairs and shocked the woman into pulling away.

“…Y-Y-YES SWEETIE?”

She stepped aside, straightening her outfit and wiping her mouth.

“CAN I GET JELLO WITH BREAKFAST?”

“SURE, HUN!”

The woman went to open the refrigerator. “Damn, I hope we have some. Otherwise, I’ll have to go to the supermarket and the traffic into town is gonna be a total nightmare....”

She had barely opened the door two inches before I shut it >>>! And held it closed. 

Fearing I had turned hostile, she broke out in a look of astonishment.

I stared back, deathly serious. “He’s sleeping in his own bed tonight,” I said. “And he’s going to school tomorrow. Even if I have to drag him there kicking and screaming.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vegeta recalls events leading up to the fire.

Through the wild tangle of flames, I caught sight of Trunks, staring down at me from his bedroom window. 

His features, robbed of detail by the dark, appeared snowman-like. Two black pebbles for eyes; his mouth, a miserable slanting line.

I knew he was frightened, and confused...and sore…and that he hated me. 

But, in that moment, I couldn’t care less.

…!...

With one stern glance, I made him scamper.

Thereafter, I imagined he dove under his bed covers, face down, eyes squeezed shut, praying that when he opened them, sunshine would fill his room, the living hell would be over, and his mother would waltz in to greet him with her warm smile and gentle touch.

Regrettably, my son was a stranger to the idea that we don’t always get what we want.

No matter how small or reasonable our expectations.

Indeed, the other day after seemingly reaching agreement with Bulma about the boy's sleeping arrangements and school attendance, one can only imagine how much of a slap in the face it was to discover mother and son tucked up together in the master bedroom.

As soon as Bulma spotted me out in the hall, she stroked the boy’s arm. “Trunks, Sweetie? I made your bed up with those new sheets. Y’know? The ones covered in dinosaurs? Wanna try ‘em out?”

“Nah,” he said, his mop of lavender hair shimmering as he shook his head. “I like sleeping here with you.”

I approached, rage simmering just below the surface of my calm façade. “…I thought I made myself clear earlier.”

Bulma stared apologetically. Meanwhile, Trunks waved, oblivious to what I was talking about. “Daddy! Get in with us!”

While he busied himself with the TV remote control and surfed through cartoon channels, I settled on my side of the bed, whereupon Bulma and I huddled together to have one of those distinctly parental, furiously whispered chats.

“Sorry,” she hissed. “I know he shouldn’t be in here. But it’s taken an hour and a half to give him his bath and get him into his pyjamas. If I kick him out, he’ll throw the mother of all tantrums and I just don’t have the energy to deal with it.”

Without hesitation, I volunteered to escort Trunks to his room. But Bulma was adamant that my interreference would backfire.

“The tough-love routine doesn’t work on him,” she said. “And if you go ahead with it, I’ll be the one that has to stay up half the night picking up the pieces.”

I was frank in expressing how much I hated the idea of co-sleeping with a fidgety six-year-old. If nothing else, it was improper. Bulma, of course, found a way to twist the premise to suit herself.

“A family slumber party isn’t such a bad idea,” she said. “It’ll get him used to _mommy_ and _daddy_ sleeping together again.”

“No dice,” I said. “The boy’s turned into a precious sissy, and I’m fucked if I’m going to let it carry on a minute longer.”

Her eyes, brows, and mouth scrunched into a frown. “Fine,” she snarled, before looking away and turning her nose up. “Just don’t expect any _naughty time_ tomorrow. I’ll be too sleep deprived after _your_ son keeps me awake all night with his crying.” A self-satisfied smirk spread across her face. “In fact, I think I’m gonna be wiped out for the rest of the week.”

I had every intention of calling her bluff. Afterall, with a background in martial arts and the universe's most powerful military, I was a highly disciplined individual. A few days without pussy should have never even qualified as a minor concern.

But as I sat there, inwardly praising my superior ability to resist, it became apparent that I couldn't tear my eyes away from the skimpy, lilac, satin thing that the woman had chosen to wear to bed.

And like some immature fuck-boy, all I could think about was peeling it, slowly, from every soft curve of that lust-inspiring body.

* * *

An hour later, the clock struck midnight and the three of us were still awake.

Arms crossed, I seethed as Trunks bounced, giggled and ad-libbed along to loud, animated nonsense on TV. 

Bulma’s tits jiggled each time he moved. But she was far too engrossed in her ‘period romance’ novel to notice me noticing. When I side-eyed the book to find out what had made her blush and bite her lower lip, it came as no surprise to discover the voluptuous female protagonist getting vigorously screwed by her swashbuckling lover. Although, the description of his _‘distended, bulging cock’_ made it sound as if he had a bad case of thrombophlebitis rather than a hard-on.

Another eye-rolling moment followed when Trunks removed his pyjama top and wore it like a tribal head-dress to mimic one of his beloved cartoon characters. Fresh out of patience, I wanted nothing more than to berate him and his mother. But before I could get a word out, the over excited little shit decided it was time for some hotel-style room service.

“Mommy? Can I have apple juice?”

Bulma slipped a bookmark between the pages of the money shot scene. “…Ok, Sweetie,” she said. “But I want you to try and sleep afterwards.”

“That stuff’s pure sugar.” I growled. “He already had a filling last month. He’ll need another at this rate.”

I was on the verge of losing my temper, only to get distracted when Bulma leaned forward. Beneath her nightdress, a sliver of pale lace covered her pussy and ran between her ass cheeks. 

“I know,” she sighed as she retrieved her bathrobe from the floor. “But it helps him drift off.”

Her assertion confused me. To my knowledge, there were no sleep-inducing properties in fruit. But all became clear when she returned and administered the drink. 

Like some bizarre recreation of the days when she bottle-fed Trunks as a baby, he lay back in her arms, sipping through a straw while she held the carton. 

A bristling sensation travelled down my spine, all the way to what remained of my tail bone. _Ludicrous_ , I thought. _How long has this been going on for?_

I tried taking solace in the switching off of the lights and TV. And, God knows, I was glad when Bulma turned out to be right about the juice. It worked like a magic potion. Within minutes, Trunks’ eyes fell shut and he was sleeping soundly.

Even so, I couldn’t settle.

The truth was, I felt robbed. 

It should have been a special night. The reclamation of my marital bed. The official beginning of mine and Bulma’s do over.

Instead, as I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, my disappointment festered. Each minute felt like an hour. And I came to resent the child so much that I found myself wishing he had never been born. 

I should have left. And I don’t just mean the bedroom. A few weeks in the mountains, a jaunt through outer space, and the story would have turned out completely different.

At the time, however, my stubborn streak compelled me to soldier on through the toxic brew of emotions. 

And on that note, I may as well confess here and now that despite my best efforts to look to the future, despite reminding myself on a daily basis that Bulma had chosen me, despite fucking her senseless at every given opportunity, I wasn’t over Gohan. 

Not even close.

Towards my sleeping son, I harboured strains of jealousy and intolerance disturbingly similar to what I felt toward my former love rival. Irrational? Most definitely. But when all was said and done, Bulma had, again, cast me aside in favour of a young half-breed.

As I gazed at her neck and bare shoulder, an excited craving simmered in my groin and, within seconds, my dick swelled so much it threatened to poke out the top of my sweatpants waistband.

Ordinarily, it would have taken significantly more than that modest display of skin to turn me on. What did it, was an odd mix of spite and the idea that my own wife had become forbidden fruit.

In our son’s presence, I wasn’t supposed to touch her. Not in the obscene ways I longed to. And so, I wound up stewing; childishly wanting what I couldn’t have.

I turned on to my side and stroked from the woman’s temple to the crown of her head, fingertips surfing through silky waves of hair every inch of the way. Then, at the sound of her pleasure drenched sigh, desire turned to compulsion.

Trunks became irrelevant.

My hand skimmed over Bulma’s shoulder. And as it travelled down her arm, her spaghetti strand of a dress strap went with it. 

“Huh?”

Nestling my forearm under hers, I clamped her abdomen and pulled her to spoon with mine.

"Honey?"

While my cock pushed against her ass, she squirmed with the realisation that my intentions went beyond lavishing her with unrequited petting.

“...Mnphf?"

I devoured her neck, tasting and savouring and kissing.

“...Ohhh..."

When my hand reached her stomach, she erupted in deep, panicked breaths, gripping my arm in an attempt to stop my touch going further.

“…We can’t!” 

I overpowered her effortlessly, and with her night dress bunching over the back of my wrist, I felt up the front of her thighs. Silky skin and tiny, almost invisible, white blonde hairs passed underneath my hand. The higher I went, the harder she wriggled. And in the process, managed to put a few inches between herself and our son.

Meanwhile, my touch ventured over the flat plane of her lower belly, into her underwear and amongst the neat strip of fluff arrowing down to her slit.

“No, no, no, no!”

She buried her face in her pillow, stifling a whimper.

I pressed down.

~!~

She froze.

Knuckles drowning in warm layers of pussy, I trapped her clit between my index and middle finger. Every squeeze had her writhing. And I found a perverse amount of amusement in the way she so desperately tried not to disturb our son.

As her hand wrestled with mine, her voice was no more than a harsh breath. “What if Trunks wakes up?!?…Oh!?!...You have to stop!”

As it happened, a natural break occurred when I backed off to get undressed. However, she was too busy basking in relief to realise that my retreat was only temporary.

She brushed Trunks’ hair away from his eyes to check that he was still asleep and I, too, took a precursory glance. As soon as I saw for myself that he was well and truly away with the sandman, I pulled Bulma’s shoulder so that she ended up flat on her back.

Shock paralysed her long enough for me to mount her and wedge my body between her thighs. I tugged her dress straps down to her elbows but by then, she was putting up a fight. Tight little fists landed on my chest, and she tried with all her might to push me off. As I went in for a kiss, she turned her face away. So, I settled for her ear, my tongue skimming the edge.

“Play hard to get all you want,” I said. “This…” My fingertip circled her clit. “…Is going to be mine.”

Hot flesh greeted my touch. And though her cunt wasn't completely soaked, a slick of she-cum was leaking from the core. 

"...!..."

The delicate folds easily gave way to the full length of my middle finger.

“Aiigh!” She gasped and bucked. We ended up nose to nose.

I grinned. “…And I don’t give a damn if the kid wakes up.”

I let up, just enough to allow her one final, longing gaze at Trunks.

Her instinct to protect his innocence was perfectly natural. But so were my urges. And I was pleased when she returned her attention to me with new found appreciation for that fact.

Her body deflated. Her thighs slackened. Featherlight fingertips caressed my face. 

She exhaled. “…Nothing freaky, ok?”

* * *

_“…Vegeta~a~a~a…Oh, God! Oh God!…”_

It may have been Bulma beneath me, her tits against my chest, her legs across my back, her pussy gripping my cock down to the root.

_“Oooh!…That’s good, baby.….Ah!...So good!”_

But like I already said, I wasn’t over Gohan. And as disturbing as it seems, he was the one fuelling my fantasies.

_“Ah!..Ahh!...Little harder…”_

Since getting back together with Bulma, I revelled in visions of the heartbroken punk. Before, during, and after each fuck, I pictured him crying into his pillow at the prospect of another long, dark night alone. Never again would he kiss her, or so much as share a meaningful glance or touch.

_“Ah!...Yes!...YES!....”_

I’d lost count of how many times I’d drifted off into vindictive little daydreams. Gohan moping around under his parents’ scrutinising gaze. His pathetic existence consisting of nothing more than schoolwork and farm chores. Waiting for hours on end until the other members of the Son clan were asleep so that he could call Bulma’s cell phone for the millionth time, only for the ‘you’ve been blocked’ tone to dash all hope of hearing her voice.

But more than anything, it was his face that really popped my cork. Creased as a whore’s bed sheets, eyes like portals to endless realms of agony.

The image was as fresh in my mind as it was on the night Kakarot apprehended him on the lawn. 

And my physiological response was…hair-raising. 

As messed-up as it was, Gohan’s brokenheartedness made my dick hard enough to hammer nails. 

_“…Uhhhhhhh! Jesus, Honey!?! Have you been popping my dad’s Viagra?”_

I was so wrapped up in my own head that I failed to recognise the red flags waving each time I concentrated on the teenager instead of my naked, writhing wife.

Somehow, his torment made me feel more. _“AHH!...Vegeta…”_ I fucked deeper. _“Baby, I…I…”_ Came harder. _“AHHHH AAAIIGHAAAAAHHHHHH!”_

Bulma stiffened against me, bracing her legs and body to try and reduce the impact of all the rocking and thrashing on our son.

_“That was amazing, Honey. And thank God, Trunks didn’t wake up because I don’t think I could have stopped if he did.”_

In the post-rapture of orgasm, I rolled onto my back. And in the short time it took to catch my breath, the sheer feeling of satisfaction had me ready to fall asleep.

After blotting the cum cocktail oozing beneath us, and ensuring Trunks was adequately tucked up, Bulma slipped back into her nightdress and sidled up to me. With her arm draped over my chest and her face nuzzled into the nook of my neck, it seemed that we were on the cusp of deep loved-up sleep. That is, until she flinched and her sigh of contentment switched up into an exasperated gasp.

My eyes remained closed. “I’m glad you had a happy ending,” I said. “But kill the sound effects, ok?”

“…It’s…it’s…” She clung to me. “Ewwww!”

Begrudgingly, I opened one eye. “What?”

“Trunks just peed!”

Bulma reached back to gently push the child away. But no matter how much she repositioned him or herself, she was unable to escape the wet patch.

Smug and amused, I got back to the soporific business of falling asleep. “Told you not to give him that apple juice.”

“Real fucking helpful,” she hissed.

More obscenities and moody snorts followed as the woman tossed and turned to get comfortable. Side, back, stomach. It was like laying next to a fucking rotisserie chicken. But, eventually, she threw an arm and leg across my body and passed out.

And despite all the stifling heat, bodily fluids and overcrowding, my last few moments awake were bliss enriched with victory. 

Who could have guessed that hard-won contentedness was less than twenty-four hours away from going up in flames?


End file.
